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How happy here should I

And one dear she, live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear-
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me

And so make a city here.

ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618-1657.

A THANKSGIVING FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;
Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry.

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard,

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall,
And kitchen small;

A little buttery, and therein

A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread,
Unchipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There placed by Thee;

The worts, the purslane, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou has sent;

And my content

Makes these and my beloved beet

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand

That sows my land.

All this, and better dost Thou send
Me for this end-

That I should render for my part
A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign
As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,
O Lord, of Thee!

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

Between broad fields of wheat and corn
Is the lowly home where I was born;
The peach-tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all;
There is the shaded doorway still-
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn-and, as of yore,

I can smell the hay from the open door,
And see the busy swallows throng,
And hear the peewee's mournful song;
But the stranger comes-oh! painful proof-
His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

There is the orchard-the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run,
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air-
But the stranger's children are swinging there.

He bubbles, the shady spring below,

With its bulrush brook where the hazels grow;

'Twas there I found the calamus root,
And watched the minnows poise and shoot,
And heard the robin lave his wing-

But the stranger's bucket is at the spring.

Oh ye who daily cross the sill,
Step lightly, for I love it still;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,
Then think what countless harvest sheaves
Have passed within that scented door,
To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees,
And when your children crowd your knees,
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart,
As if old memories stirred their heart;
To youthful sport still leave the swing,
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

THE INVITATION.

FROM THE GERMAN,

T. B. READ.

I have a cottage by the hill,

It stands upon a meadow green,
Behind it flows a murmuring rill,

Cool-rooted moss and flowers between.

Beside the cottage stands a tree,

That flings its shadow o'er the eaves;

And scarce the sunshine visits me,

Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.

A nightingale sings on a spray,

Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers, on their way,

Linger to hear her plaintive song.

Thou maiden with the yellow hair,

The winds of life are sharpened chill,

Will thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?

Translation of S. H. WHITMAN.

JOHANN W. L. GLEIM, 1719-1803.

ICELANDIC LINES.

FROM THE DISCOURSE OF ODIN.

'On guests who come with frozen knees
Bestow the genial warmth of fire;
Who has walked far and waded streams
Needs cheering food and drier clothes.

To him about to join your board,
'Clear water bring to cleanse his hands,
And treat him freely, would you win
The kindly word, the thankful heart.

Translation of W. TAYLOR.

'DOMESTIC PEACE.

Tell me on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found-
Halcyon daughter of the skies!
Far, on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of scepter'd state,
From the 'rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottaged vale she dwells,
Listening to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honor's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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